Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

Suddenly I feel calm, simple, tough. Lucy is Lucy again. I have one of those hunches that’s actually a lot more than a hunch. And that kind of hunch is either a breakthrough or a disaster.

I pull out my phone and press the speed dial for Blumenthal.

“I’ve got to talk to you before you head to Westchester,” I say.

“Too late and too bad,” says Blumenthal.

I hate the guy. And for once I say so out loud. “You know, you’re a real son of a bitch. I’ve got an idea that could really help, and you say ‘too bad.’”

Blumenthal speaks. “Listen, Lucy. I don’t have time. I literally do not have the time.”

“I’m telling you, Detective. I’ve got an idea that could really help us.”

“Yeah? I’ve got an idea, too. Here’s my idea. You stay put. You do your job and … you’ll see. It’s all going to work out.”

CHAPTER 69

I AM WILLING TO bet my New York City ass that this whole thing is all going to work out just fine. Here’s why: because I’m jumping fast and deep into the situation. Blumenthal won’t be happy. Bobby Cilia won’t be happy. Hell, it’s even possible that I won’t be happy. But I can’t run the risk of not getting involved and then end up hating myself for the rest of my life.

Or even worse—and this is wishful thinking—let the case absolutely fail and then hear Blumenthal say something infuriating like, “Why the hell didn’t you just ignore me? You always do. For Chrissake, Lucy, this time you could have been a hero … er, heroine.”

Okay. Back to reality. Game on.

I grab Troy and say, “Get your car. We have to move fast. Go get your car right now.”

Uh-oh. Glitch one in my plan. Troy says, “Lady boss, I’m a subway guy. I don’t even own a car.”

This inspires my decision to act like a maniac CEO type. Ignore reality. Just give orders. “Get a goddamn car, Troy! Just get a car!”

He looks at me like the true crazy lady I’ve become. “You are a woman possessed,” he says. “I’ll just assume that the Lord himself is talking to all of us through your screams.”

Troy runs to the exit stairs. “I’ll call you as soon as I know what I’m driving, and where you should wait for a pickup.”

“Great!” I say. “Now just move. Move … your … ass.”

“I always wanted to be somebody’s sidekick,” he shouts, and he disappears down the stairs.

As for me, I don’t ever remember being so freakin’ worried. I’m getting ready to follow a long-shot hunch—a good hunch, a smart hunch, but, like I say, a long shot.

I need to focus on my hunch. So of course I call my mom. This time, however, it’s for info related to this case. “Mom, I don’t have time to waste. Remember that story you told me the other day about the man a few years ago who wanted you to help him get a few babies?”

“Well, yes. I do remember. He was a handsome fellow. He had a very nice suit jacket with—”

“Mom, I’m in a real hurry here. Did he say that he needed the babies for people in Harrison, New Jersey, or Harrison, New York?”

I don’t get a sense of true certainty when she answers. “Well, I’m pretty sure he said it was New Jersey. But those states are all one big blur to me.”

Okay. I’ve got to go with a “pretty sure.” I say good-bye and disconnect.

I drop two phone chargers and an iPad charger into my purse. I fill my water bottle and then grab two Diet Cokes for Troy. I check the face of my cell phone every ten seconds—as if I might possibly miss the call from Troy telling me where to meet him.

A nervous mind is a crazy mind. At least it is in my mind. I envy the likes of Blumenthal and Sarkar—people who can sort and file their thoughts. Compartmentalize? Move on with one project at a time? That’s just not me. My brain works on the crashing roller-coaster blueprint—fast-moving, out-of-control cars that almost collide but, with a little bit of luck, never fall off the track. The problem is this: I really believe that life assigns you only a limited amount of luck—your fair amount. And you don’t want to use it up too fast and too soon.

The images of the important cast members of the case—Nina, Orlov, Blumenthal, the cemetery, Tracy Anne—are exploding in my brain. My mind is flipping through the possible rats who are aiding and abetting Orlov and Nina. And then it hits me. I know exactly who the guilty party is. It’s everyone. Of course it’s The Constitution according to Lucy Ryuan: everyone’s guilty until proven innocent. Everyone, that is, because the loony old Irish skeptic in me is totally unable to eliminate anyone.

Tracy Anne has already been identified as Judas. Bobby Cilia seems to have shown up out of nowhere. Troy seems to be our informant, but he was also Tracy Anne’s confidant. Our scum-bucket CEO, Dr. Katz, is certainly not above crime. Then there’s this Barbara Holt woman. Sarkar weaves way too smoothly in and out of everything. And why does Blumenthal make me keep my distance from the center of the investigation? Could Blumenthal actually be …? Nah. Well … why not? Of course not. Of course. Yes. No. Maybe. Yes.

While I’m shuffling these ideas—ideas with no answers, no substance—around in my brain, my cell phone rings.

“I’ll be at the Third Avenue Medical Waste Pick-Up entrance in two minutes,” Troy says, his voice breathless, intimate, maybe even a little frightened.

“What kind of car are you driving?” I ask as I rush down the corridor to the side stairwell.

“I got me a McCoy Miller heavy-duty Type III,” he says.

I’m completely baffled by Troy’s answer. “What the hell is a McCoy Miller heavy whatever?” I ask.

“It’s what the Office of Transportation Requisitions calls an ambulance .”

CHAPTER 70

TROY DRIVES. I RIDE shotgun. I’m focused on my cell phone’s GPS program like I’m playing Mozart on the piano.

“Not FDR Drive,” I yell. “I don’t want to go to the East Side. Get over to the West Side.”

“Calm down, for the good Lord’s sake,” Troy says. His voice is understandably impatient at my barking orders.

Just about the only thing Troy is enjoying is sitting behind the wheel of an ambu—er, excuse me, a McCoy Miller. The red lights on the ambulance roof are blinking. The siren is screeching. Suddenly Troy throws the vehicle into a sharp U-turn on 57th Street. Well, at least he listened to me. Now we’re heading to the West Side.

“I don’t know what you do for driving directions, Lucy, but when I’m driving to towns in Westchester, near Long Island Sound, I always go FDR Drive,” Troy says.

“There’s been a minor adjustment to our plans,” I say. “But first of all, I want to apologize for yelling. To say that I’m tightly wound is putting it mildly.”

He ignores the apology. He’s tense now also.

“What’s the minor adjustment?” he asks.

“Detective Blumenthal is heading toward Harrison, New York . You and me are going to Harrison, New Jersey. ”

We drive for a minute or so. Finally, Troy breaks the silence.

“What in Satan’s hell is the matter with you, woman?” he says.

I don’t answer his question. The GPS tells Troy to make a left on Ninth Avenue. “We’re going through the Lincoln Tunnel,” I say.

As Troy speeds left onto Ninth Avenue, he says, “And maybe you’ll tell me why we’re headed to a whole other state than the one Blumenthal and the NYPD and the FBI and the Westchester County police are all going to.”

I say nothing as we maneuver past the other traffic, which barely pulls out of our way, and Troy eventually turns into the loop that enters the tunnel. Now I’m busy again on my phone, trying to get info from the internet on anything even vaguely connected to medicine or medical research or infant care or adoption services in Harrison, New Jersey.